OpalescentGold: Happy Veterans Day! Please mind the updated rating!

A word of warning: there's basically no real plot in this one. Very little. It's just 100000% fluff and domestic relationship building. Plotwise, this fic definitely skid to a stop last chapter, so if tooth-rotting fluff isn't really your thing, you can just consider Redamancy finished at Lovers to Soulmates.

Now, onwards!

It's not perfect. Things aren't easy. Not everything is magically fixed.

James has been an agent for seven years and retired for less than twenty-four hours. After believing he'd never have a chance with his soulmate for six years, Q first seriously considered the alternative approximately thirty minutes ago.

They don't do much that first night. James holds Q until Q's yawning into his shoulder, and then he guides them both to the bed. They sleep wrapped around each other, and in the morning, James wakes up first, warm and comfortable and enveloped in the soothingly familiar scent of Q.

It's quiet, the lulling, cotton-like type of silence that breathes like the rhythmic wash of the waves and settles over him with the warmth of a tucked-in blanket. For the longest time, the only sound James can hear is their breathing, and he doesn't know when the two sounds became one, only that it has.

As the sun wakes from its slumber, he hears scratchy sounds from the kitchen that he presumes are the cats eating breakfast. There's a brief conversation in which purrs of varying tones are exchanged, but the cats behave. Not long after that, the erratic hum of early traffic layers itself on top of cheerful birdsong.

It's going to be a good day.

He lays there for a long time, watching the depthless sky fade into the softest blue and then the shy path of the sunlight as it tiptoes through the window, over the beautiful man who sleeps so trustingly on James' chest. There's an itch in his bones born from midnight training exercises and a life spent running, but he doesn't go.

Q's limbs are holding him captive, after all. And James has no intention of freeing himself.

Mostly, he watches Q, absently carding his fingers through that soft, incorrigible hair. Q's bedhead is even worse than his normal mess. His nose wrinkles a little sometimes, for no reason James can determine, and his only reaction to the increased volume and light is to snuggle harder into James. It's ridiculously endearing.

When, upon waking up, it takes Q several seconds to recognise him and the first thing he does is jerk back in alarm, James says nothing.

"I'm sorry," Q whispers when comprehension filters back into his eyes once more. He sits up and reaches out tentatively, hands hovering over James' face, and James doesn't hesitate to take them into his. "I just - it's hard to - "

"I know," James breathes, pressing his cheek to Q's open palm. "It's alright." It hurts that it's come to this, but they both need time to accustom themselves to the new status quo, and he's waited so long, they've both waited so long, that this is nothing in the grand scheme of things.

Q closes his eyes and sighs slowly, deeply. He leans into James, who envelops Q in a snug embrace, quietly thrilled that he's able to do so, allowed, encouraged even. He plants a kiss on top of Q's head and says, "We'll adjust."

"Yes," Q replies, soft but certain. "We will."

They stay like that for the majority of the morning, doing nothing but basking in each other, until Rayleigh and Morgana pad in, meowing in demand. Then, James unwinds himself to get up and start breakfast while Q pays Their Majesties the attention they deserve.

They eat breakfast at the dining table. The silence is born small and stifled but grows in comfort and contentment until they kill it by chatting easily about Shakespeare and the new movies coming out.

"We should see one," James says, voice confident in an attempt to hide the fact that he's actually dipping his toe into cold waters, trying to decide whether to dive in or to flinch back.

Q's blink is startled, and his expression is uncertain, but he smiles and he looks at James like he's done something worthy of medals and explosive pens. "I'd like that."

James smiles back, and icy water or not, perhaps this is something worth drowning for. It's the closest he's ever come to understanding Vesper's final moments. "It's a date then."

And so, they spend their Sunday afternoon in the theatres. The Martian isn't as bad as James thought it would be. Still, he finds the way Q tentatively reaches for the popcorn in his lap and the light brush of their shoulders far more interesting.

They sit in the very back to appease James' paranoia, such that when James, staring intently at the screen, places his right hand carefully over Q's in the space between their armrests, no one else notices. No one else cares. It's a delicious freedom.

He feels Q go still and tense, shifting back as if to pull away. James keeps his hand where it is, touch light and undemanding, and reaches for some popcorn with his free hand, feigning complete disinterest in anything but the movie. The stuttering of his heart is expertly masked.

"What the fuck? What the fuck?" Mark Watney says on screen.

Gradually, Q relaxes and curls his fingers in response. James eats his popcorn, flushed with warmth. Later, they eat curry at a place James knows and very pointedly talk about everything but James' resignation and MI6. Instead, they argue about Q's cardigans and James' hatred of fennel seed.

And much, much later, despite Q's wary eyes and tense posture, they fall asleep in much the same position in which they woke up, tangled in each other and sharing the same sweet air.

Things aren't magically fixed. But that's okay. James is stubborn as a mule, and Q's a mechanic by nature. They'll fix things themselves. They don't need magic; what has magic ever done for them but craft the initial link? They've done the rest themselves, and they'll do this, too.

It's not perfect, but it's them, and that's perfect in its own way.

When James was thinking of retirement, he thought of the fire and brimstone. He mourned the missions and the gunfights and the magnificent cars, the adrenaline in his veins and the righteuosness in his fists, the dutiful driving force of Queen and Country.

He wasn't thinking about the grains of time that fall through the hourglass, the small moments that make up a lifetime. That's Q's job, the little details, the fastidious flourishes that save or doom an agent, and Q didn't know until it was done.

He's not 007 anymore. Not Agent Bond anymore. Not a blunt instrument or the trigger finger on a gun or a soldier or a sailor, barely a servant of Her Majesty and only in the sense of a civilian, and God, he's a civilian now.

To be fair, a civilian far more dangerous unarmed than the local authority en masse and with far too many international secrets tucked away in the crevices of his mind, but still. A bloody civilian.

A civilian with time on his hands and no job and nothing to do.

For the first week, James occupies himself with moving some small stuff into Q's flat. There's not much to do. He barely has anything in his old flat, not when his shaving kit is under the sink and his scotch lingers in the kitchen, unopened. What little furniture he has, he's reluctant to bring up to Q while they're still shaky beneath the veil of safety.

Still, he buys another, bigger bookcase and hangs paintings on Q's empty walls. Sometimes, when Q thinks James isn't looking, he'll trail a finger down the painting to feel the texture of the paint and smile, wistful and lovely.

Most of the time, of course, Q is busy at MI6, which moves on without Bond as is the wont of national security and secret services, doing more damage control and running his branch. He remains the Quartermaster, and James doesn't do him the insult of expecting any less.

"No one knows yet," Q says when he comes home on Tuesday. He's smirking with an edge of impish mischief. "They just think you're on another one of your unwarranted vacations. M hasn't said a word."

"'Unwarranted'?" James repeats, mock indignant. He's curled up horizontally on the sofa with Rayleigh and a copy of Q's The Great Gatsby, having given up on constructing the bookshelf today. "I'll have you know that you would be envious of my days-off if you knew about them."

"I'm sure," Q says, perfectly dry, as he hangs up his jacket and walks over to sit next to James. Their thighs brush. James loses his spot on the page. "The alcohol poisoning and the one-night stands are exactly what I've been missing."

James stops pretending he's still reading to raise his eyebrows at Q over the book. He's not wrong, but - "And how would you know that?"

Q freezes in the act of reaching for Morgana, who followed him, and blushes a pretty pink. He picks up Morgana and buries half his face in her spectacularly fluffy fur. "It's common knowledge," he claims.

"Ah yes, bluffing to the best poker player MI6 has ever known." James smirks and puts the book down on the (cleared and cleaned) table, splayed open to keep his place. This is far more interesting than reading about Gatsby mooning after Daisy.

Q scowls immediately. "Stop that, you'll ruin the spine," he scolds, stretching forward to insert a piece of crumpled steel from some ill-begotten project he probably started in the middle of the night between the pages and snap the book shut.

James eyes the makeshift bookmark dubiously. "Won't that be worse for the book?"

"'Course not. And watch the ego or we won't be able to fit the cats on the sofa. You are not the best poker player in MI6's history." Q sniffs imperiously, settling back down with a roll of his neck.

James quiets under a flicker of sadness - "Take the next one. There isn't room enough for me and your ego." - but he meets Q's gaze, warm and relaxed, and lets the past go. "And how can you claim that? What proof do you have?"

"Bond. I don't need proof to know you can't possibly be the best," Q says, exasperated.

"James," he reminds gently and moves on before recrimination can bleed into Q's face. "Most MI6 employees think I'm - I was the best Double-Oh in MI6 history." It's not regret that plagues him. It's a vague sense of aimless bewilderment now that one of the strongest ties that kept him tethered to Earth is broken, sawed away by a knife in his own hand.

But not regret. Never regret. He won't do that to Q, won't poison them like that, every passing thought coloured with resentment another drop of acid splashing over both of their hearts. He's seen it happen so many times, and it's ugly and pitiful always.

Besides, he's in danger of losing himself. Not when Q sits so near and tints his vision with glorious sunshine, reminds him with every passing moment how lovely it is to be alive and in love.

Q doesn't mention his slip, nor his faint grimace. "Well then, more's the fool of them," he scoffs, but his teasing smile gives him away. "You were the greatest hazard to my tech in all the world, but that's hardly a compliment."

"I'll take it anyway." James winks, leaning back on the armrest. "You didn't answer my question. Were you stalking me, Q?"

Q's flushes. "...I wouldn't say 'stalking,'" he says at last. "Stalking is such a harsh word. Strong negative connotations. I wasn't - villains stalk, and I didn't mean anything by it, really -

"Q - "

"It was just a peek through the CCTV cameras when I didn't have anything else to do, I swear. Or, well, maybe a little directing of the traffic lights, but that's nothing to what I can do - not that, um, I would do any of that for you. It's technically illegal. Well, I would, but that's not the point - "

"Q."

"It's just - I was doing my duty as Q; you said it yourself, and once a Quartermaster, always a Quartermaster. I wasn't Quartermaster at the time, actually, not most of the time, to be honest, but I wasn't trying to be creepy, I only wanted to make sure you were okay - "

"Q!" James lunges across the sofa (ignoring Rayleigh's outraged wail as he's knocked unceremoniously to the floor, which is promptly echoed by Morgana as she joins him) to cup Q's face in his hands and press his lips to Q's.

Q stops talking.

There are stories. There are many stories. Isn't the pinnacle of emotion that of the love between soulmates? Since the written language was created, poets have cooed reverently of the first time soulmates find ink on their skin, the first time soulmates look into each other's eyes.

The first time romantic soulmates kiss.

James has kept away from it for the most part. Why read of what he can never have? Why torment himself with the forbidden fruit when the lingering gifts on his skin already make him ache? No, better to let the sleeping dragon lie and get on with it.

He hasn't been able to avoid everything, though. There was Romeo and Juliet in primary school and then Antony and Cleopatra in Uni, before the variety of books he found himself reading because Q was - is - an unrepentant bookworm and a cheeky little shit even way back then.

The most celebrated writers and poets of all time tend to describe that very first kiss as magnificent events, so grand and brilliant that it seemed to James that they were as inconspicuous and private and harmless as an atomic bomb. Fascinating to a point but mostly terrifying and not at all like something he'd like to experience personally.

His kiss with Q is nothing like that.

Q's startled and astonished and utterly unprepared. He's stiff and uncooperative while James waits patiently, brushing his lips against Q's in small, coaxing kisses until, slowly, oh so slowly, he begins to respond.

The angle isn't the most comfortable, and James is in an awkward position due to his lack of forethought, so they're forced to do some reshuffling. Q ends up straddling him, kept steady by the strong hands on his hips.

Q remains doubtful still, and that translates into his every movement, from the slight tilt of his head to find a better fit for their lips to the shift of his hands linking themselves behind James' neck to the careful way he presses himself against James.

For his part, James closes his eyes and follows Q's cues, letting him lead their dance instead of taking over as instinct urges him to do. He relaxes deliberately, lowers all his walls because he needs to for this to work, because Q needs him to do so, and for one of the few times in his life, simply gives.

It's a cautious, mindful kiss, sweetly chaste and almost innocent in its purity, thrumming with the novelty of this intimacy and grounded in the familiarity of their affection, and unlike any other James has ever had. It's not fireworks. Not the be-all end-all of his existence, not a perfect culminating second of bliss, not instant enlightenment. Not lust-filled and irresistible nor intoxicating and drugging as heroin.

Their kiss isn't any of that. It's just...the comfort of a home in each other, the assurance of an enduring love come what may, the tenderness of new lovers and old souls, and the warmth, as slow and sweet as honey, trickling into his heart. The contact is almost familiar, the taste of Q almost a long-ago memory. James loses himself in the push and pull of the touch of their lips, feels the imprint of it carve itself into his bones until it thrives in his bloodstream, and delights selfishly in the knowledge that he'll never again be free of Q.

When they break apart at last for want of oxygen, Q's eyes are dilated and considerably dazed and so heartbreakingly green. "James…."

James smiles and nuzzles his nose against Q's, at peace with the world and supremely content. "I don't mind, Q." It's flattering - comforting, really - that Q watches, has been watching, has cared enough to watch over James for years. "I just didn't think you were into voyeurism."

Q splutters and whacks his shoulder weakly while James chuckles into his neck.

And they're happy.

James kisses Q often in the next few days.

As a morning wake-up call after James has woken up at the crack of dawn as is habit, gone for a parkour run, returned, showered, and circled back to Q, although the bad breath can necessitate a mint afterwards. As a goodbye and a 'have-a-good day' on the doorstep, a welcome home that's slow and luscious, a soporific goodnight in a peck on the forehead to soothe out all those pesky lines.

A barely-there press to his neck at three in the morning when Q wakes up briefly to go to the loo and then fluttering kisses to his hair when they're curled up together on the sofa watching whatever has caught their fancy that night. And sometimes, many times, just because James has wanted to kiss Q like this for so very long and Q is starved for affection, whether he knows it or not.

(And maybe, maybe, so is James.)

He keeps his touches innocent and light, knowing better than to push here and now, but it doesn't matter, not when Q's hands on his jaw send shivers down his spine and a light caress to Q's nape has him audibly losing his train of thought.

They're so terribly, uncontrollably sensitive to each other, and it's divine.

James finds himself walking away from their deeper kisses hot and aching, weak in the knees and nerve endings trembling. For a man who's been desensitized to pleasure for years, it's an exquisitely brutal shock to the system and one he embraces with hedonistic glee.

At first, Q reacts to this sudden influx in kisses with pleased confusion and uncertain reciprocation after a second or two to process and adjust. This eventually devolves into 'I-know-what-you're-doing' looks and a roll of his eyes. But he begins to tilt his chin up whenever James is close and returns the kisses without prompting, melting gorgeously into James rather than flinching away.

James smugly counts this tactic as an absolute success.

Even if - oh, God - the slowly-simmering heat building up in his veins is going to kill him one day. One day quite soon.

It rains all throughout Wednesday. Q goes with James anyway, bundled up in a thick coat and holding the flowers while James holds up the umbrella for the both of them. They say their piece separately, and when it's James' turn, he kneels and touches his hand to the white stone of the grave.

"I wonder what you would say to me now," he murmurs over the susurrus of the rain. "Retired and breaking every soulmate regulation you ever set in place. I'm not 007 anymore, M. You probably would have scolded me to death before anything else could do the trick."

Only the howl of the wind answers him.

The dead don't speak.

James stands up and regards the grave to the left. "Or maybe you would have approved," he says with a hint of a rueful smile. "You chose to be buried next to your husband in the end, despite everything, after all."

He sets the bouquet of gladiolus they brought together on Olivia Mansfield's grave and turns to leave.

James doesn't linger.

Q's waiting for him.

On Thursday night, James lays his head on the armchair of the sofa. It took a bit of coaxing, but Q is sprawled out on top of him, the warm weight of him an inexplicable comfort. On the telly, the latest episode of Doctor Who ends, the familiar theme song fading out. Morgana is napping at their feet, and Rayleigh has curled up on the (still) uncluttered table.

It's been a long day for them both. James spent much of his time rearranging Q's - their - flat. He finally got the bookshelf to work, entertained the little monsters, who have been unaccountably clinging and demanding, and made some discreet calls.

The remnants of Spectre still haunt him, and although Franz is dead and James isn't 007 anymore, he needs to know what happened.

His contacts tell him that Spectre is spinning, dazed and aimless with the death of their leader. Between their words, he hears foreshadowing of an imminent power struggle because a power vacuum never lasts.

And then there's that rat bastard he never got to kill.

"You never really explained C to me," James murmurs into Q's hair, his hands stroking along the curve of his back gently.

Q grumbles into James' chest. "Wha 'bout him?" he slurs, drowsy. He neatly sidestepped the question of what he was doing today, but the way he inhaled his lasagna and succumbed to James' cajoling with only half of his usual reluctance suggests intensive work in R&D.

James taps his fingers lightly on Q's spine in admonishment for playing at ignorance. "He was your ex," he starts.

"Hmm. You can't mean you're still jealous," Q protests faintly.

James scoffs. "He was rather obsessed with you if you've forgotten," he reminds, somewhat petulantly, depositing a kiss to a very unruly curl.

Q opens his eyes halfway to peer at him. "You are jealous. Why the hell are you jealous? He tried to kill me, and here you are, in my flat, spoiling my cats."

"I don't spoil them. They've just learned from your bad example and are impossibly dictatorial when you're not here to rein them in."

"Ah, yes, the great James Bond, defeated by two cats who can't possibly weigh more than two stones together," Q mocks with a shake of his head. "What has the world come to?"

"A complete and utter disgrace, no doubt, just like MI6's inability to successfully track down a Max Denbigh, a single criminal who shouldn't have any great resources left and was last seen wounded via GSW."

Q lifts his head up to frown at James, eyes now wide open. "Is that why you're asking? And how do you know that anyway? Your security clearance…isn't what it was."

James ignores the pause. Of the two of them, Q has taken to James' retirement with the most discomfort, but James knows that can be cured only through time and stability. Good thing he's nothing but obstinate when he sets his mind to something; Q will understand that James isn't going anywhere if it's the last thing he'll do.

There are worse lifelong goals. "I called and asked," he replies, smirking.

Q's glare is blatantly unimpressed. "Called whom and asked what?"

James chuckles and noses at the curve of his ear. "Q-Branch, of course."

"Not possible," Q refutes at once. "All calls from Double-Ohs get transferred to me or R. I would have known."

"Mmm, but you were busy eating those cupcakes." The ones James sent from the local bakery at 1300 precisely. It would have taken around fifteen minutes for the delivery to get to MI6, ten for the sweets to pass security despite James' voucher, and five for the twelve boxes to get to Q-Branch.

Upon which Q could be reliably distracted for around ten minutes. More than enough time for James to phone in a minute beforehand, capture an unlucky minion who doesn't yet know he's retired, and pry out any relevant information about Max Denbigh.

James watches Q work this out in less than a minute and doesn't bother avoiding the hand that comes up to slap at his chest. It doesn't hurt. "You bloody manipulative bastard," Q says. "You better not have threatened my subordinate."

"'Course not," James soothes, smirk only widening. "He accepted the cupcakes as bribery." He doesn't mention the side-deal that James was never to bring about the Minecraft hobby again; the boffin's a good minion otherwise.

"Terrible man," Q chastises, but a smile is tugging on that generous mouth. "Don't go bribing and manipulating my hapless employees again or I'll make you rewatch Mr and Mrs Smith."

James groans dramatically. "Please no, Q. Anything but that."

"Well." Q pretends to reconsider. "They were delicious cupcakes."

"You said I wasn't to bribe your employees. Does that mean I have permission to bribe Quartermasters?" James murmurs lowly, pressing a kiss to his earlobe.

Q shivers delightfully in his arms but manages to pin a haughty look on him, regardless, prim and posh. "Mr Bond, you can try."

Yes, James thinks suddenly. Yes, because he's always known that Q deserves the best, knew from the very beginning that Q deserves a soulmate who will cherish and adore him as he is meant to be cherished and adored, but -

He is that soulmate, isn't he?

"Then I'll do my best," James promises with a depth of sincerity he's surprised he still has, a little breathless, a little amazed at how lucky he is. He knows he won't ever deserve Q, but he can try. Oh, but he has to try.

Q freezes, searching James' face with wide eyes. James doesn't know what he finds, but it must be adequate because Q's face softens into a wondering smile. He pushes himself up so he can lean down and kiss James with disarming tenderness, the first time he's ever initiated a kiss between them.

James arches into it, sighing into Q's mouth. He never feels quite as loved as he does beneath Q's touch. When they break apart, Q rests his head on James' chest, and James curves his hands lightly around his delicate hipbones.

They listen to each other breathe for a while.

The time between James first discovering the truth and his resignation wasn't very long, really, but it felt like a century. Luxuriating in Q like this now seems the greatest of indulgences, better than the softest silken sheets and hour-long hot showers.

He would be content to stay here forever, but that crick in his neck isn't going to get better anytime soon.

In the end, James is the one who ends up shooing them both off the sofa and towards the bedroom when Q starts yawning dangerously. Tucked in bed and isolated from the rest of the world, safe and warm, he entwines his legs with Q's and says, "So. Max Denbigh?"

Q groans. "James."

"Q."

"Is it really necessary to finish talking about him today? What about tomorrow? At breakfast? You know, when I'm actually awake."

James doesn't mention that people tend to be more truthful and open to telling secrets when they're tired or that he's been trained to pursue answers until he gets them. Q probably already knows both pieces of information anyway. "I'll buy you tiramisu. The good kind."

"What did I say about bribery?"

"That I should do it and do it well."

"...fuck. I did say that, didn't I?"

James chuckles but sombers up quickly. "He's obsessed with you, he's threatened you, and no one knows where he is. Tell me what I need to know, Q."

Q squints at him blearily. "Just like old times then?" A Quartermaster providing intel to his Double-Oh agent.

No. He doesn't want to return to the mould that caused them both such pain. "Well," he allows, "it's possible that I might also be asking out of personal reasons, but that's not particularly relevant to this conversation."

Q's lips curve minutely. "Personal reasons, hmm?"

"Not relevant."

Q snorts and seems to shake himself out of sleep again. "Yes, alright. I met Max four years ago at a tech conference."

"You were working at MI6 by that time," James comments, already passably irritated but doing his best to remain neutral.

"For two years," Q agrees, frowning. "We dated casually for three months before I broke up with him. Max was...intense. Brilliant, which was what caught my attention in the first place but with very radical views even then. We only saw each other sporadically, so it took me some time to catch the red flags."

James is frowning. "He never hurt you, did he?" he asks, the faintest dagger-edge sheen to his voice.

Q shakes his head. "No, but he would speak contemptuously of the UK government and how they run things. I never let on that I was anything more than a computer systems analyst, so he didn't know about my brother - "

"The minor government official?" James can't help but mock.

Q's look is droll. "Yes, that one."

James is at once both vaguely impressed and somewhat miffed by the memory. "You lied right to my face, you cheeky little shit," he accuses mildly despite stroking his hand down the curve of Q's back.

The brief flicker of guilt and recrimination that manifested in the twist of Q's lips lessens by a degree but only by a degree. "I'm sorry," he says, quiet and direct. "I know it's not much, but I hated lying to you."

James presses a kiss to his forehead and doesn't say he forgives Q. He thinks he does - after everything 007 has done in the name of achieving his objective, everything James has done because he didn't know, he must, right? - but he murmurs, "I understand why."

Q studies him and nods like he heard everything James didn't say. "Max didn't know about Mycroft, so he couldn't use me to get to him. But his morals were always...greyer than your average civilian and he started showing far too much interest in my hacking skills."

"So you broke it off."

"So I broke it off. He accepted the breakup really easily," Q notes almost ruefully. "It wasn't a messy end with screaming or fighting or any of that. We just...went our separate ways. It's not as if we ever had a close or particularly meaningful relationship."

James carefully hides the vindictive smugness in his chest before Q can see it. It's petty and unreasonable, but he's stupidly glad C never held any piece of Q's heart, never had anything James has or will have.

"I made sure to wipe all of my contact information and render myself untraceable to him from there on, though, and I hadn't seen him until I realized he was C," Q adds.

James muses this over. "Why was he fixated so heavily on you? If you didn't have a close relationship."

Q hums. "I don't think he was focused on me actually. Not really."

"What do you call him backing you up against your own desk?" James scowls, brows drawing together and muscles tensing. "If that's not personal harassment, HR needs to rework their policies."

Q favours him with a roll of his eyes and kisses the temper right out of him. "Nothing happened, I told you. And I was reaching for a taser anyway," he says tartly.

James frowns sullenly, both pleased and annoyed that Q's using his own tactics against him. "If he wasn't focused on you, then what was he doing?"

Q hesitates but admits slowly, "I think he wanted to recruit me."

James makes the connections in a heartbeat and curses harshly. Franz did have some idea of who Q is to him, after all. Vesper stares at him accusingly from his mind's eye, and M goes limp in his arms, and no, James won't let him - "Did he know - "

Q's already shaking his head. "No, he never made any sort of indication that he knew. And I have no doubt that if he had, he would have rubbed it in my face and made some sort of vague threat, so I can't imagine Max knew anything about us."

Us. A measure of calm saturates James despite the dread still cold and coagulated in his chest. He likes thinking of them as a unit, as a team in all things. He noses at Q's soft, thick hair. The touch helps anchor him, pushing back the panic spurring on his heartbeat so his words come out evenly, "Did he want you as his own personal Quartermaster then?"

"You know," Q says, staring up at the ceiling, "I don't think you're far off. I was the only one who could have taken down Nine Eyes, my security clearance isn't too shabby, and I all but built MI6's systems from scratch. I could have been very useful to them."

James tenses. "In my experience," he rumbles into Q's ear, "it's never a good thing to be 'useful' to people in power. They don't let you go."

Q blinks up at him. "Are you suggesting I'm in danger?" He pets James' chest idly, not even seeming to realise what he's doing, until James settles down again with a huff, muscles unwinding.

He considers the idea. "Not at the moment, no. Spectre is still in tatters, and C is wounded. There's no one left to go after you. But later...it's not implausible. We'll have to monitor the situation closely."

Q yawns widely. "Noted. Now, may I please go to sleep, Mr Bond, or do you have more intensely relevant and jealous questions to ask before sunrise?"

James contemplates protesting the jealous description, only to decide it's not worth it. He nips playfully at Q's earlobe instead, grinning at the indignant squeak that earns him. "I could think of far more interesting things to do than sleep," he teases cautiously.

Q snorts and rolls his eyes at him. "Good night, James." He yawns again, nose scrunching up adorably, and closes his eyes, snuggling into James' chest.

And there was a time when Q would have jumped out of the bed at such a remark like a cat ambushed with an icy shower. James marvels quietly at the difference and presses a goodnight kiss to his forehead. "Good night, Q," he whispers back.

And even while he drifts off to sleep, James begins to plan.

Moneypenny calls on Friday at noon. "You sly bastard," she says as soon as he picks up.

"Good morning to you, too, Ms Moneypenny." James frowns at the mess of plates on the kitchen counter. Q is easily distracted by his gadgets and not even close to the neatest person on the planet, and they spent last night cuddling on the sofa with The Man from U.N.C.L.E. playing instead of doing chores.

James, however, is Navy through and through, and those unwashed plates are taunting him.

"I can't believe that's how you quit!" Moneypenny says, half admiring, half reproachful. "Haven't you ever heard of a two weeks notice, James?"

He hums. "Can't say I have. Double-Ohs generally don't have two weeks to make up their minds on whether or not it's time to die yet."

"Don't be morbid. You're not dead unless Q's been working on zombie formulas without M's approval. You two have made up, haven't you?" There's a snap to her voice that calls to mind the knives she hides among her pens in the Moroccan mug on her desk.

James would be intimidated if he wasn't James Bond and Q doesn't keep a stash of weapons in their panic room - hidden behind their clothes and the secret entrance in the wall of their closet - and that's all without mentioning the weapons James likes to tuck here and there in the rest of the flat.

With Q's full knowledge and permission, of course.

"You seem awfully interested. I thought you're already taken by that mysterious paramour of yours," he murmurs, giving the dirty plates the stink-eye but moving to arrange his books on the new bookshelf. It looks awfully innocent for all the trouble it gave him. Those directions were such shit.

Moneypenny tsks. "Don't go fishing," she says. "This isn't about me. Am I to take that as confirmation the two of you have kissed and made up?"

Keeping in mind Q's current filing system, James slides the books on weapons, explosives, survival, and culture next to the ones on coding, programming, and engineering on the top shelf. "I suppose you could say that."

There's a pause that informs him she wasn't expecting him to admit to anything. "Oh?"

James smirks. "I'll tell you the date if you can wrangle me permission to enter MI6 anytime I like from M."

Moneypenny curses. "What sort of bargain is that?"

"A good one."

"You're retired, James. You can't just waltz in whenever you please."

"Then I'll tell Marian."

"I despise you with all my heart," she declares calmly. "Fine. I'll see what I can do."

"Nice doing business with you, Ms Moneypenny," James says and hangs up.

Three hours later, Moneypenny calls again when James is adjusting the new picture on the wall. It's tilting a fraction too far to the right. "I can get you a consultant position. You won't have your previous access, but you'll be able to get inside Q-Branch."

James was in the business for too long for him to accept that without reading the fine print. "And…?"

"And you'll have to a teach a class or five every year and mentor some trainees, but that's nothing. Come on, James."

James has tackled the plates in the intermission and now is frowning at the floor beneath the table. God, when was the last time Q swept? At least James pays people very generously to clean his flat regularly, even though he's rarely there.

"How's M?" he asks, not agreeing but not disagreeing either.

"Pissed. But he would have offered you the position anyway if you hadn't decided to be such a drama queen about your resignation."

James is honestly offended. "I am not a drama queen."

"Think whatever you like, James; you're really very dramatic. Well? When did the kissing happen?"

"Do you want to know when we kissed or when we made up?"

"...there's a difference? Oh, my." There's vindictive glee in Moneypenny's voice, and James feels somewhat sorry for Q, who'll be under siege for information quite soon. But better Q than James. "Hmm, when did you two get together?"

James thinks about it. "Six days ago."

There's a silence before Moneypenny curses a blue streak.

"Who won?" he asks, curious.

"Tanner," Moneypenny spits out. "Tanner won. Oh, I'm going to kill him and steal all his money."

"Watch out for Mrs Tanner," James warns nonchalantly. "She knows how to use a gun."

Moneypenny hisses like a provoked viper. "I have stilettos, and I know how to use them. She has nothing on me."

And with that, she hangs up.

"James?"

"In the kitchen."

When Q comes home, he finds James cooking pasta sauce on the stove, the strained pasta in a bowl next to him. The domesticity they've fallen into should be concerning, and sometimes, when James is bored and restless in-between all of the moving in, he thinks that he should be alarmed. But mostly, it just feels right.

Q sidles up behind him. There's hesitance in the arms he wraps around James' waist but also a growing confidence in his welcome. Q hangs his chin on his shoulder, resting some of his weight on James, who takes it with ease. "You caused quite a stir at MI6 today," he says, quiet.

"Did I?" James replies, equally quiet, and stirs the sauce. He's a much better cook than Q, and he doesn't mind cooking for the both of them. It satiates the traditional heart of him, which loves nothing more than providing for his partner, and assures him that Q is eating properly.

Q hums and tucks his face into the crook of James' neck. "Yeah. Everyone finally figured out that you retired. No more misuses of Q-Branch resources for you."

James chuckles, feeling light and happy and incandescently alive. His only basis for comparison is his early days with Vesper, when he was so drunk on love, he never noticed the shadows in her clever smile, but that isn't right, isn't a fair comparison at all.

"And here I thought the stir was over the betting pool. How was our lovely Miss Moneypenny?"

Q groans into his skin, the vibrations sending gleeful little shivers down his spine. "Sod off," he says without heat. "She was insatiable, wanted to know every detail. I thought I was going to have to call down security, only to realise they don't deserve to die because Eve is a monster."

"A stunning monster, though. They would have died happily beneath the stylish shoes you made for her."

"You keep on complimenting my best friend. Should I be jealous?"

"She shot me off of a moving train once, so I don't think you need to be worried."

Q sniffs. "Your conquests have been stranger."

"Even so," James says, mostly teasing but also perfectly honest. The truth tastes strange on his tongue. He thinks he could get used to it.

James pours the sauce onto the pasta and turns off the heat, turning within Q's arms to return the embrace. Q lets him with a frown and a furrow in his brow that he then proceeds to hide against James' chest, cuddling into him closely.

He's had a bad day, James recognises after automatically cataloguing the lines of strain around that generous mouth and the degree to which his shoulders slump. Nine Eyes left its mark, and Q has been hard at work cleansing all of MI6's systems, not to mention outfitting all of the agents being sent out to rip apart the remaining Spectre bases.

It's probably why Moneypenny called in the first place. She's very good at distracting Q when he needs it.

James stands there for a spell, just breathing with Q. He sways them slightly on the spot, contemplating the pasta that still needs to be tossed before it clumps together in a disgusting mess and the magnificent motorcycle that he caught a glimpse of two hours ago and the solid, warm weight of Q in his arms, growing steadily heavier as Q relaxes into slinky liquid boffin.

It's probably a minor lapse of fate that Q isn't a cat himself. Or maybe he's been around the cats so long that he's slowly becoming one of them.

Finally, he murmurs into Q's hair, "Come on, darling." The endearment slips out before his mouth can communicate sufficiently with his brain, startling James into blinking and Q into shifting a little. He doesn't regret it, however, and Q doesn't protest either, although whether that's because he's simply too tired or because he actually likes the nickname is hard to tell.

He'll worry about it later.

Through a combination of manhandling and coaxing, James gets Q out of the kitchen and to the dining table. Having lifted up his head to see where his seat is, Q stares at the table in astonishment, taking in the white tablecloth and the floral centrepiece composed of the purple heliotropes that Q loves best. "James…"

And it does things to James to realise that Q, observant, intelligent, guarded Q, came back home and searched out James like a ship following the path of its lighthouse, so single-minded and focused that he didn't even notice the new additions to his home. "Sit."

Q does so sluggishly, still blinking at the semi-formal dinner settings like he expects them to disappear any time now. James presses a kiss to his hair and returns to the kitchen to stir the pasta and place it into a bowl. He brings the caesar salad he made earlier and stashed in the fridge out in a large bowl first, a bottle of good red wine in his other hand.

Rayleigh has cottoned on to Q's return by now and is happily enjoying his attention on his lap. Morgana is probably still napping on their bed, the spoiled beast. Q smiles at James as he places the salad in the middle of the table and opens the wine. "You didn't have to," he says despite the obvious pleasure in his voice and the renewed light in his tired eyes.

James would beg to differ but that would be counterproductive so he merely pours the wine with a practised flourish and says, "Hmm, but I want to. Let me." And it's not a question nor a statement, but Q looks at James, looks through James with all his secrets and pretences - he's trying, though, he's trying - and hesitates for but a moment before nodding, shoulders relaxing a fraction.

"Well. I suppose I can endure being wined and dined for now," Q replies, lifting his chin in faux pretentiousness. But his smile widens sweetly and his gaze is open and glowing, and James grins back helplessly.

"Why, thank you, my Quartermaster. It's an honour, truly," he says, dry as a desert.

Q raises an eyebrow and takes a closer look at his cutlery, only to frown, bemused. "How did you go to all of these cocktail parties and fairytale balls without knowing how to set a table properly? The forks are supposed to be on the left side."

"Oh, I know." James sits down next to Q. He places some salad on Q's plate, because he seems to be more preoccupied with petting Rayleigh, and then grabs some for himself, making sure to give the majority of the croutons to Q. If he doesn't, Q will just steal them anyway, because he's a greedy shit like that.

"You know but you still put the knife above the plates?"

"You don't like formal dinner settings," James points out casually. He likes formal dinners himself, but he's had so many that he can live without one for the rest of his life.

Q squints at him between bites of his salad, appearing puzzled but not wary. "...and you would know that how?"

"Am I wrong?"

"Don't avoid the question."

"I'm not the one avoiding the question, Q." James crunches on a crouton and smirks at Q's exasperated scowl.

"Tosser," Q grouches. He steals a crouton from James' plate in petty retaliation while James rolls his eyes but doesn't stop him. "You're enjoying this, aren't you?"

"Absolutely not."

"Liar."

"Still not answering the question."

Q exhales petulantly. "Fine. I don't like formal dinners. Now, how do you know?"

James swallows a large piece of lettuce and decides he needs to add more lemon juice next time. "I didn't exactly learn the basics of formal settings from MI6 or the Navy."

"Your parents?" Q inquires hesitantly, fork hovering three centimetres above his plate.

James shakes his head, a small burst of excited anticipation fizzling in his chest like a child with a secret. "No. You."

"Me?"

"You."

"I don't remember this," Q says, frowning suspiciously. "James, what did you do?"

James wonders if Q is imagining an amnesia-inducing gun from his predecessor or sneaky Double-Oh interrogation techniques. "Do? I didn't do anything. In fact, I'm rather hurt that you don't even remember our special time together."

Q treats him to the most unimpressed face he has ever seen, which is, in itself, impressive. "You're such a bastard. How the hell did I teach you the basics of formal dining? And why wasn't I aware of this?" He stabs his fork into the innocent lettuce for emphasis.

James feigns a thoughtful look while he continues to polish up his salad, gleefully aware of the annoyed set of Q's eyebrows. He's cleaned off his plate, and Q is clearly ready to rip into him with his blunt fork, when he says at last, "It was a long time ago. You've probably just forgotten."

"A long time ago..." Q repeats, eyes flickering, and really, James expected him to catch on five minutes ago. Whatever he was doing today must have been spectacularly bad to have shorted out his genius' brain to this point. But - "Oh!"

James smiles faintly at the startled yet pleased expression on Q's face, the warmth of sunshine after weeks of gloomy clouds. He was right. It's all worth it.

"But that was…" Q trails off, shaking his head a little in wonder. "That was decades ago. How do you even - "

"It made an impression." Of a rigid household and heavy expectations on young shoulders and a determined spirit and a boy with skinned knees and a stubborn slant to his mouth, not that he had ever admitted anything like so to himself back then.

Q looks at James for a long moment in a way that makes him want to squirm, makes him feel ten metres tall and capable of conquering the world but also utterly disarmed. "James Bond," he says, soft and amused, "you're a bloody closet romantic, aren't you?"

"We should go to Rome one of these days," James deflects blatantly and drinks his wine.

"'Rome is the city of echoes, the city of illusions, and the city of yearning,"' Q quotes. "Giotto di Bondone."

James hums and gets to his feet to step into the kitchen for the pasta. He distributes it evenly between them and then comments mildly, "Dreadful artist. Too religious."

Q almost chokes on the mouthful of pasta he just shoved into his mouth. "Excuse me?"

"You heard me." James eats his pasta without any mishaps.

"He's the most important Italian painter of the 14th century! Art historians have referred to him as the father of European painting and the first of the great Italian masters! His frescos still decorate the Scrovegni Chapel!" Q sounds positively scandalised.

James continues to eat pasta and lets his expression speak for him. Q glares and points an imperious finger at him. "You are an art heathen," he announces. "Obviously, you didn't learn anything in the National Gallery. We're going to have to go back."

James looks up from his plate to raise an eyebrow at Q. "Are we?" he teases.

The corner of Q's mouth twitches, his eyes sparkling. "Yes, we are. I'm going to educate you on how to appreciate the fine arts, James Bond."

James chuckles between another bite of pasta. "And this is coming from someone who has, on occasion, spent more than 49 hours in front of a computer before collapsing on a bed in Medical with an IV full of fluids?"

There's definitely a smile on Q's lips now, no matter how much he tries to hide it. "That was once. Once! And we agreed to never talk about that again."

"I don't remember agreeing to anything," James denies playfully. "And you don't have any proof that I did."

Q narrows his eyes as he chews on pasta. "Oh, is this the game that we're playing now?"

"I think it is." James lets the very faintest whisper of a smile curl his lips.

"I'm the Quartermaster," Q says primly. "I have access to all sorts of resources. Including surveillance cameras in my Branch and Medical."

"And what are those supposed to do?"

"Well, if I recall correctly, you guided me to Medical and then stayed with me until I woke up, whereupon I took it upon myself to extract from you a promise that you wouldn't mention this incident ever again."

"And?"

"And if I pull up the surveillance film from a year, three months, and twelve days ago, I have my proof."

James pauses and sips at his wine. "You know, Q, I've met a few lawyers during my time, and all of them say that nothing is binding unless a contract is signed - "

Q bursts out laughing, and it isn't long before James starts laughing, too. As their chuckles die off, James leans back in his chair and grins at Q, who beams back, feeling happy and satisfied and light as air

Almost as if by accident, their eyes meet.

And catch.

And hold.

And the atmosphere changes. There's something hot and focused in Q's eyes like burning stars, and James has never seen it before, but he recognises it for what it is, and his breath catches in his throat.

He is frozen to his chair, being seared alive, and he can't possibly look away.

The tension, heavy and pleasant and intense, saps the light-hearted air from their table. Q is still smiling at him like that, and James can't stand it, but he's the greediest man in the world where Q is considered so he also desperately wants Q to never stop smiling at him like that.

His heart thuds in his ears, the only sound in their otherwise quiet flat. The cats have wandered off to do whatever it is that cats do when their owners aren't watching them. James has been less nervous in front of a firing squad.

Q licks his lips slowly. James swallows hard, mouth dry.

Oh, Christ.

He wants. He wants so fucking bad, but they've been cautious, testing the ground before every step in fear of falling - and there was a time when James Bond would have rolled his eyes at that and went right on seducing whichever pretty thing he had taken a fancy to that night - and he doesn't -

He doesn't want to lose anything. They're past the stage where he can leap without certain knowledge of a security net. They're too important for him to gamble.

James wrenches his gaze away with more effort than it once took to scale a 25-floor building. "You're washing the dishes," he orders hoarsely.

"No, I'm not," Q says. He sounds lightly amused, which James can handle just fine. It's the tenderness that makes him ache. "And you're not either."

"This might surprise you, but we don't actually have a house cleaning fairy - "

Q thrusts his chair back with a harsh scraping noise, strides around the table, and then pushes James' chair back with a loud screech, straddling his lap without hesitation. Startled, James instinctively steadies him by the waist, and this is a mirror of their first kiss all over again.

Q leans their foreheads together, their noses brushing, and James looks back at him helplessly. Q's eyes are spellbinding this close, moss green and alive with that electric intelligence. He's beautiful, and even here, even now, James can't quite believe how lucky he is. They're breathing each other's air, sharing body heat, and Q smells like tea and garlic with the faint smokiness of fire and the bittersweet comfort of gunpowder. He cups James' face between his hands, which are soft and calloused and very warm.

This time, Q's smile is shy and sly and just for them, underscored with a touch of eager timidness that doesn't conceal the deeper fierce certainty behind it. "I think the dishes will keep, don't you?"

James opens his mouth but isn't given the chance to say anything before Q cuts him off with a kiss that's more intimate than any they've had before, hot and wet and deep. He tastes like the pasta that James made, the wine that James bought, and James' words turn into a groan, his back curving slightly off the back of the chair to get closer to Q. His hands tighten on Q's hips as his mind reels.

Q nips at his lower lip, sending delicious shivers down his spine. James is just barely coherent enough to slide his tongue along Q's in retribution, eliciting a full-body shiver that presses Q along James more firmly. He's lean and lithe, and the resulting friction makes them both moan.

James wants to hear that sound again. He wants, wants so much, wants everything - the old and long-suppressed hunger in his chest stretches, awakens, and uncoils through his muscles and bones and veins, potent and ravenous, leaving James flushed and drunk on lust.

When they separate, they're both breathless and dazed, and there's a smug look on Q's face that James wants very much to kiss off.

"Q," he says instead because he needs to know before they can progress further, "are - ah - you...you, mmm, sure? You're...you're tired, and - " The question would be easier to get out if Q doesn't insist on kissing him between every word, small, teasing pecks that leave James straining upwards, trying not to lose his train of thought.

Q looks torn between rolling his eyes and laughing at him. "I think I have enough energy for this. Come on, James." And he leads James into the bedroom by the hand and locks the door so the cats won't come in.

Touching Q is like dying and being reborn, all of the maddening, terrible heat of resurrection without any of the pain of it. James becomes addicted to the soft skin of Q's inner thighs and relishes the wounded noises he makes when James presses him down into the mattress and kisses him as he has never before kissed any other lover, as if he wants to crawl into Q's soul, where there's undoubtedly already a place waiting for him, and live there forever.

James learns Q. Learns the mole on his right shoulder and the scar on his left knee and only succeeds in concluding that he'll need the rest of his life to learn all of Q, and even that seems too short. There's reverence in his slow strokes over every centimetre of Q's body, wonder in his deep kisses, insatiable hunger in the touch of his mouth, and Q arches under him, exquisite in his pleasure.

Being touched by Q is nearly unbearable. James knew from the moment they met, the moment their hands brushed, that soulmates are raw and oversensitive to each other's touch, but he never quite considered all that was involved, all that it meant.

With every brush of his hands, every touch of his lips, James' nerves are scraped raw with bliss, his senses overwhelmed, until he doesn't know up from down, doesn't know what's coming out of his mouth because the syllables of his words insist on snapping together like puzzle pieces in his wrecked mind, coming apart, and then rearranging themselves again and again.

He's normally better at this, better at staying put together - what spy worth his salt can't keep his mouth shut during a snog with the mark? - but Q makes him forget his self-control, his training, makes him forget that he's supposed to pretend to be someone else when he's being kissed with cherry lips and worshipped with clever hands.

He's James, only James here, and Q forces him to remember that in-between gasped praises and keened pleas and Q, please, Q, Q!

When Q falls apart, he whispers a name in James' ear. He understands even as he himself is unravelled, ecstasy making a devastated, shuddering ruin of him, and tucks the secret in the deepest, darkest vaults of his mind, where he keeps his most important secrets.

Contrary to what might be expected of a Double-Oh agent...a former Double-Oh agent, that is, James doesn't house national secrets in these vaults, not the shadows of MI6 nor the international filth of foreign governments. No, here, he keeps Vesper Lynd's bright smile and Andrew Bond's last encouraging words and M's stern glares, and it's here that he places Q's real name.

In the aftermath, they curl up together after James has cleaned them up since Q mulishly refused to move, claiming his legs had turned to jelly and it was James' fault so he should do the rest.

James presses light kisses into Q's hair, all but purring in contentment. Q is already asleep, worn out by his day and exhausted into compliance under James' touch, but if he were awake, he'd probably swat him for his smug smirk.

They spend Saturday morning doing nothing other than lazing around in bed, lazing around on the sofa, and lazing around on the sofa while watching television. James briefly considers taking Q out - London is his hunting ground, his territory, and he knows every nook and cranny - but he wants the dark circles under Q's eyes gone more than he wants to show Q the glories of their city.

Next weekend sounds like a good time.

In the afternoon, Q finally notices the new painting. "James," he says slowly after they take a break from their Game of Thrones marathon to go to the loo and eat some snacks, "is this one of yours?"

James hums, mock thoughtful. "I'm not sure, love." Ever since Q's non-reaction, he's been trying out various endearments. They've both agreed that "sweetheart" is a bit much and "cupcake" will never be spoken of again, but "darling" and "love" are okay.

"Dear" is off-limits, now and always, and Q nods when James asks this of him with shadowy eyes and a sombre tone. He doesn't ask for further explanations, and James is grateful, because he doesn't want to think about the taste of canal water and his signature martini.

(It seems bitterly ironic now that he thinks about it. In the end, it was Vesper who brought him Q, wasn't it? Well, no, that was James' own stupidity and callousness, but indirectly, his most regretted tragedy has brought him his most cherished happiness.

The world is strange and awful like that.)

"What do you mean you're not sure? This wasn't here before."

"Are you sure?"

"Wha - of course I'm bloody sure, James! I've lived here for three years, and I've never seen this painting before!"

"Maybe you just never noticed it?" James suggests impishly, pulling out some biscuits, the kettle already set.

Q pokes his head into the kitchen. "Are you pulling my leg?" he asks warily.

James hides his smile with the ease of practice and gets out the teapot. Q is very particular about how his tea must be made, but he mastered that skill years ago. "I wouldn't dare."

"That's precisely the sort of thing you would say if you were," Q points out.

"That's shit logic."

Q narrows his eyes and stabs a finger at him. "I'm onto you, James Bond. That most certainly is your painting."

"No, it isn't."

"James - "

He plates up the biscuits and turns around with a perfect pot of tea. "It's our painting now," James says with the smugness of knowing he's irrefutably won this bout of banter.

Q gapes at him. James helpfully stuffs his mouth with a biscuit and smirks.

On Sunday, Q follows up on his threats and drags James to the National Art Gallery. James acquiesces because he likes being with Q and he likes making Q smile, but to his surprise, he finds himself enjoying the trip more than expected.

As a former agent, he has some knowledge of art, literature, music, and history since villains like to pretend they're sophisticated and the rich like to flaunt their wealth. James has been to his fair share of galleries, many more impressive and interesting than the National Art Gallery of London - the Museo National Del Prado comes to mind - but it's different now that he doesn't have to worry about dead drops and rendezvouses.

Here, he has nothing to anticipate, no danger he has to circumvent. He's exploring this museum with Q, who stops at almost every painting to read the small information plaques, and James ends up lingering in front of several paintings, tracing the elegant lines with his gaze and marvelling at the splendid use of colour.

It's easy to look at the masterpiece as one big entity and appreciate the beauty of it, but James is trained to analyze detail, and his eyes catch on the strain of white that turn a stream of blue into moving water and the subtle play of shadow and light. The three different shades of the same colour that make up a tree trunk and the rippling contrast of perspective.

Q picks up on his mildly bewildered delight minutes in and beams before leaving him to it. They, James notices, have different tastes; Q prefers the grand architecture with clean lines and patterned abstracts, while James is drawn to portraits and sprawling landscapes, the scenes of war and conquest from ancient times.

As they wander farther into the museum, Q hooks his arm through James' with every pretence of casualness. An old lady smiles at them like they're adorable as she passes by. James is pretty sure he's grinning like an idiot, but he doesn't care.

"Here we are," Q says as they stop in front of a familiar painting.

James smirks. "I still say it's a bloody big ship."

Q snorts but subsides once more into silence. They stand in front of the painting a while longer, and James admires the blurring of the colours, the vibrant shades that blend together to make up the fiery sky, and the subsequent stunning reflection on the sea.

"I was furious at you," Q says suddenly.

James glances around. They've been blocking everyone else's view of the art for so long that they've been left quite alone in the room. He's glad. This is theirs and theirs alone. "What for?"

Q makes a somewhat derisive sound. "What for, he asks," he echoes irritably. "Oh, I don't know, maybe it's because I thought you were dead for weeks, you tosser."

James blinks. "Oh."

"Yes, oh." Despite his palpable annoyance, Q leans his head against James' shoulder. "And that isn't even going into the fact that you'd been silent for years, and the one time you were willing to talk to me was when your funeral was being planned and I was ready to cosy up with a bottle of vodka."

James keeps his silence for a beat, measuring up the value of saying nothing versus the value of saying everything. It goes against all that he is to give away his secrets, to let himself be wide open, but.

This is Q.

"That's when I started to suspect," James says. "The timing, it was too much of a coincidence."

"I know. It was stupid of me; I knew how outrageous Double-Ohs can be. You'd gone off-grid before. I just." Q worries his lower lip with his teeth but carries on, voice steady if thin, "I was watching when Moneypenny shot you off that train, and it all seemed so. Final."

James untangles them to wrap an arm around Q and pull him closer. "I knew you were probably a security breach. And M would have stripped me of my Double-Oh status had she known. But I wrote back as soon as I could anyway."

Q tilts his head up slightly to smile sardonically at him. "To see if I was a threat?"

"No. Because you were sad." James watches surprise touch Q's gaze. Quieter, he continues, "You so rarely communicated anything of your own feelings to me when you wrote. Always, it was for me. But you were sad because of me that time, and I couldn't let that stand. Not when I could change it for once."

Q stares at him for a while longer, and James lets him look his fill, doesn't bother pulling on any masks. At last, Q nods like he understands and turns to press a kiss to his suit-covered shoulder. James wraps his other arm around Q in response and rests his chin on Q's soft curls.

They stand there and let the world pass them by.

"No. Absolutely not."

James tries not to sigh. Q is the most stubborn creature he's ever had the fortune of meeting. This was why he didn't want to talk about moving in furniture, but it's Tuesday night, and he's been bored the entire day and itching for something to do that isn't squinting at the painting to assure himself for the nth time that it's not tilting to the right again. He's starting to think the damned cats are butting at it when his back is turned. "Q," he starts in his best coaxing tone.

"Turn that off," Q orders instantly. "I'm not one of your marks to be outmanoeuvred. If you want to continue this discussion, there will be no more of that tone."

Q's listened to too many of his honeypot missions, he thinks irritably. A second later, that thought catches up to James, and he shifts uncomfortably. He's beginning to both hate and love these moments, when something previously incomprehensible to him suddenly makes a ghastly amount of sense.

"Fine," he relents with only a hint of a growl in his voice. "That table needs to go."

Q folds his arms, unimpressed. "The table is fine."

"It has scorch marks. The varnish is long gone. There are scratches everywhere, courtesy of those two monsters." Sitting primly on the sofa, Morgana gives him the stink eye. Rayleigh purrs like a motor at Q's feet. James pretends to ignore them both. "For Christ's sake, one of the legs is being held together with duct tape."

"There's nothing wrong with duct tape!" Q protests sulkily. "It's sturdy! It's useful! Lots of people use duct tape! The table's holding up fine!"

"The table is not holding up fine. The table is ready to collapse under the weight of all your stuff, and why is there so much stuff again? I could have sworn I cleaned all of that up a few days ago. Do you really need a chainsaw on the table?"

"Yes, I do," Q insists. "It's important. I am an engineer. And I couldn't find a damn thing after you cleaned up; there's a system, and you ruined everything!"

"Well then, maybe you should clean it up yourself," James hints not so subtly.

"Or you could just leave it as is, and we can stop discussing this and watch Doctor Who." Q peers at James through his eyelashes with a hopeful, tremulous smile and James almost falls for it. Almost.

"You little shit," he says. "If I don't get to use that tone of voice, then you don't get to look at me like that. You're not getting away from this that easily. The table needs to go."

Q promptly drops the act to scowl. "It's a fine table! I love this table!"

Ah. Sentiment. "Q," he says, patient and a tad indulgent, "my old table is made of better wood and more resilient to your experiments, and it's barely used. Instead of waiting for this table to break and cause a bigger mess, wouldn't it be better to just switch it out now?"

"No," Q mutters, scowl deepening but doesn't follow up with any more arguments.

James studies him for a moment, taking in the determined set of his brows and the contradictory embarrassed flush on his cheeks. Q knows he's being illogical, he deciphers, is embarrassed by it because he prides himself on being logical, but he can't bring himself to back down.

Because he's invested in that bloody table.

"Alright," he says, "I'll compromise with you, how's that?"

Q drops his arms, still suspicious but now curious as well. "What sort of compromise?"

"You switch out the table with mine, and I'll leave the sofa alone," James bargains. He genuinely wasn't all that keen on bringing his sofa in, not when he's already so used to Q's, no matter how comfortable and immune to blood stains his is. So really, he's not losing anything.

Q stares at him. "You were planning on throwing away my sofa?" His voice rises perilously close to a shriek as he reaches the end of his outraged question.

James smiles at him, so innocent, butter wouldn't melt in his mouth. "Well? What do you say, Q?"

For a long, long beat, Q musters up a fairly impressive glare that has James squirming to some extent on the inside. Outwardly, however, he maintains his taunting smile until, with a soft, kittenish snarl that James finds cute despite himself, Q strides around the disputed table and yanks him closer by the nape to kiss him ferociously.

It's rougher than the fleeting, sweet kisses they've been sticking to, exhilarating and thrilling. Q bites James' lower lip, hard, and he groans deep in his throat, trembling as the slow-burning ember ever present in his bones starts scorching its way through muscle and tissue.

Already, Q's lips on his are as familiar a sensation as a gun in his hand, maybe even too familiar for just one lifetime. James doesn't believe he'll ever be able to think coherently past the haze of smoke obscuring his mind. It'll char him every time, blister him always, and he'll love it.

Q leans back, gasping for oxygen, and James chases after his lips without thinking. They kiss and kiss and kiss, and when they separate at last because the cats are meowing for attention, James feels dizzy and intoxicated, melted by the wave of blissful heat overtaking his system.

Swaying gracefully in his arms, Q smiles dreamily and whispers against his lips, "You can take the table but leave the sofa alone. Oh, and I want your king-sized bed; you're such a bed hog."

James' eye twitches. "I don't want to hear that from someone who hogs all the blankets," he says, voice lower and huskier than expected.

Q smirks, chuckles, and drags him into the bedroom so they can prove each other right.

By the time James has moved in all of the furniture and gotten everything situated, it's Saturday again. He stands in the middle of his now empty flat and muses that he never did spend much time here anyway. Sometime between when he first met Q and Blofeld, he just started going to Q's flat after missions.

Looking back, it's almost embarrassing how fucking oblivious he was.

Behind him, he hears Q run his fingers along the bare walls. James turns his head to see Q inspecting the dusty imprints on the floor with some bemusement. Most are rectangular and box-like. "Did you just leave everything in cardboard boxes?" he asks. "For years on end?"

James shrugs. "It never seemed worth the effort to unpack completely." Because to be a field agent is to flirt with death, and to be a Double-Oh is to propose, and sooner or later, that day of marriage will come, regardless of any pre-wedding jitters.

The flat line of Q's mouth says he hears what James isn't saying, but he doesn't pursue the topic. "Are you giving up this flat then?" he asks, and it's only because James is paying attention - because James always pays attention to Q - that he catches the insecure lilt to his voice.

James turns away and pretends not to notice, because Q has his pride, too. "Of course. Unless you want to keep it as a safehouse or a place to stash your cats when they're being little shits."

Q chokes on an incredulous laugh. "Oh, my cats? They're your cats, too."

The nerve of him, using James' own words against him. He turns away so Q can't see his smile.

"Absolutely not." James walks towards his seldom-used former bedroom. "When they're being little shits, they're your cats. In fact, if you could somehow communicate to them that they're always your cats, it would be much appreciated. They've been dreadfully clingy these days."

Q leans against the doorway, arms crossed. "You're the one who keeps feeding them treats. They'll grow awfully fat one of these days. And besides. They missed you."

Three steps into the closet and hands full, James pauses and turns to look at him quizzically. "What?"

"They missed you. When you were rampaging about in Mexico City." Q's gaze is steady and open.

James considers the spaces between his words as he wanders out with a small black box in his hands. "...I'll have you know that you've taught those dreadful rascals the worst habits. They'd make excellent agents, what with their willingness to lie, cheat, steal, and kill for a treat."

Q arches an eyebrow. "Are you telling me you can't handle two cats, James Bond?"

"I'm saying," James proclaims lightly as he reaches out to hand Q the box, "that those cats are right terrors and we're almost out of cat treats."

Q laughs, bright and pleased, before glancing down at what he's holding. "What's in here?"

James smiles and watches the suspicion bloom in Q's eyes.

"Do I want to know?" Q demands.

James' grin only widens.

"James."

He chuckles, relenting. "Open it."

Q squints at him but does as he's told. His sharp inhale is audible, and when he tears his eyes away from the object inside to stare at James, he's alight with something like wonder and astonishment. "You...this is…"

James softens his smile and dips his voice into something intimate and warm. "I think we can find a space somewhere for it, don't you?"

Q's returning smile is sweet. "Shouldn't be too hard. An ugly bulldog like this fits perfectly into our decor."

"James," Q says on Thursday as soon as he gets home, a distinctly smug look on his face that has James instantly wary, "get your things packed."

James, halfway through Revolutionary Road, is sure he didn't hear that correctly. "What?"

Q quirks an eyebrow at him as if to say that he knows full well that James heard him perfectly fine the first time and saunters forward to say loudly, "Get your things packed."

He's almost afraid to ask. "...why?"

"You'll see." Q's smile is very self-satisfied.

James puts his book on the table and swings his legs off the sofa to scrutinize Q. Before he can conclude anything, Q's smile disappears for an aggravated noise as he strides forward to rescue the book. "How many times do I have to tell you to just use a bloody bookmark?"

"We don't have bookmarks, darling," James says absently and then realises. "Oh. You're keeping a secret." Secrets are an agent's bread and butter.

Book in hand, Q says tartly, "And so what if I am?"

A slow grin spreads across James' face. He leans forward, elbows resting on his knees. "Tell me."

"No."

"Q."

"James."

"Tell me."

"No."

"Tell me."

"No."

"Since you told me to grab my ID Card - my actual ID Card - I can only assume that we're staying in the EU, but where are we going?"

"James, it's two in the fucking morning. Go to sleep."

"But where - "

"Go. To. Sleep."

"But - "

Q groans and buries himself in the duvet.

"We're going to Rome," James says as they move through the line, eyes wide. He looks at the board, shakes his head slightly as if to correct his sight, and looks again. Nothing's changed. He turns to Q to repeat softly, "Rome."

Q, who's held out for the past sixteen hours against the brunt of James' stubborn determination, smiles, so blatantly pleased with himself that it should be irritating but is instead charmingly adorable. "You did say we should."

"I did." James grins, delighted, and takes advantage of the fact that some arse is holding up the line by taking ten minutes longer than he should be taking with the airport employee to let go of his luggage and grab Q around the waist, kissing him playfully. "What's the occasion?"

"Do we need one?" Q asks, looking amused. He slips the ticket he's been hiding into James' pocket.

James hums, nuzzling Q's cheek affectionately. "No, but there's usually one." Besides, Q's still been preoccupied with getting MI6 back on its feet; a vacation now, away from his beloved Branch, is surely no whimsical idea.

Q blinks at him and nudges him forward when the line starts moving again. "Do you really not know?"

James wrinkles his brow, searching his memory. He's normally good at remembering special occasions, but the anniversary of M's death passed weeks ago and other than that, he can't recall anything else. Then again, he hasn't looked at a calendar for a while. "No…? Should I?"

Q doesn't get the chance to answer before an employee is free and James is called up to turn in his luggage and verify his identification papers and his ticket. They get through the rest of security without much fuss, and when they get to their lounge, Q quickly plops down on a sofa. He shoves a hand into his carry-on bag and comes out with a bottle of pills.

James is startled and then disturbed. "Q?"

"My medication," Q explains and swallows two pills dry with a grimace. "I have a phobia of flying. I hate taking these - I'm high as a kite for a while and it makes me woozy and tired for hours afterwards - but it's better than having a screaming panic attack on the plane."

"Moneypenny mentioned," James replies though he's only just now remembered it. At the time, he thought she was joking and merely wanted to come make amends in person. "But Austria…"

Q shrugs, artfully casual despite the lines of strain already around his mouth. "I took medication back then just like I'm taking medication right now."

It might even have been believable if Q hadn't admitted only a second ago how much he hates dulling his mind like so. And that's not taking into account how Q must have been alone, having escaped Marian and Moneypenny's watchful eyes, alone and vulnerable and disoriented on a plane full of strangers.

For James.

He buries his face in Q's hair to a muffled sound of surprise. "Darling," he whispers, "I'm going to spoil you rotten."

Q laughs lowly. "Oh no, you won't. I've got plans, James Bond."

Intrigued, James shifts back. "Plans?" he purrs. That sounds promising. He likes plans. Q's just full of pleasant surprises today. "Do tell."

Q smirks and says, "Nope. It's a secret." He yawns - that would be the pills kicking in - and leans his head against James' shoulder. "And you won't even be able to nag me about it, because…" Another yawn. "...because I'll be asleep the entire plane ride."

"You devious man, you." Smiling, James brushes a few curls off of Q's forehead. "All right, you can have your way as long as you tell me eventually."

"I always do," Q says pliantly and closes his eyes.

Q does, indeed, sleep for the entire plane ride. James watches over him carefully and when they land, rouses him with gentle nudges. As predicted, Q is barely coherent and clings to James like a needy octopus while he gets them off of the plane and gathers their luggage.

James is calm and patient with him, ignoring the amused looks they garner from the people around them, who see not a former agent who is well-versed in dealing with drugged individuals and a man with the highest IQ in any given room but a well-dressed man doting on his partner, who clearly doesn't like flying.

It's new and unfamiliar for James to be regarded in such an innocent and positive manner but not unwelcome. He could get used to it.

Thankfully, Q texted him their hotel address before taking his meds. James ushers them out of the airport and calls for a taxi. He has to all but pour Q into the backseat and then is promptly used as a prop by Q to keep himself upright.

James doesn't mind. Q high on meds is remarkably like Q sleep-deprived or Q drunk: far chattier than normal, a little absent-minded, all over the place thoughts and movement wise, and completely, utterly, irresistibly adorable.

"Gonna build us a lightsaber," Q informs him after snuggling deeper into James' side.

James snorts, a smirk playing on his lips. He keeps Q close with the arm he's slung over his shoulders and says, "Of course you will."

At the hotel, James gets them their room with Q still wrapped around his arm. The receptionist's smile is indulgent. The hotel Q has reserved them is five-star and opulent even by James' distorted standards. They're shown to an impressive honeymoon suite with a superb view of the ancient city, and once they're inside, James pauses to look at Q, who blinks up at him innocently.

"Q," James starts hesitantly. He's not at all opposed to the implications here, but he does want to make sure he's not misreading anything in a fashion that might lead to awkwardness and distress later on. Q's gone to an awful lot of trouble to make sure this vacation will be comfortable and enjoyable; James has no interest in messing up his hard work.

Latched onto his side, Q's movements are slow and sluggish. "Yes?" He smiles at James, so trusting and almost childlike in his guilelessness.

James chooses his words with care, shifting so he's standing right in front of Q, his hands clasped on Q's upper arms. He wants fiercely to protect this rare vulnerability of Q's, and so he says at last, with a delicacy he used to employ when working with active bombs, "Are we here for our honeymoon?"

Q creases his forehead in confusion. "But we're not married," he says, not quite a protest but close to one.

James hums an agreement. "We can go on a honeymoon despite not being married," he points out smoothly.

Marriage was traditionally viewed as an optional ritual when it came to soulmates. It was a way to publicly showcase a union and have it acknowledged by the local authorities. More often than not, marriage was for the families and the records rather than the couple themselves. Nowadays, it's far more popular amongst couples who aren't soulmates.

Binding ceremonies tend to be preferred for soulmates since the sentiment expressed isn't solely romantic, as is generally the case for marriage vows. Instead, binding ceremonies emphasize eternal devotion beyond the barriers of time and space and can resonate with any kind of soulmate pair, from a romantic couple to a guardian and their ward to even a pair of nemeses, forever at each other's throats.

Regardless, both are the ultimate commitment in the eyes of society, divorce and parting rites aside.

While honeymoons are more often linked to marriages, it's become more and more prominent for bound couples to go on them as well. Everyone likes to take a bit of time off to go to an exotic location and spend some time with their soulmate and a martini.

James and Q haven't taken part in a binding ceremony, but that can be easily rectified if Q so desires. Since they're listed in MI6 - and thus on governmental records - as soulmates anyway, the only aspects that remain are the words that must be spoken and the tattoos of the bound.

It could take as little as half an hour if that's what they're here for. James fights not to shift his weight from one foot to the other. It's odd; he thought training had long since purged any such tells from him. But he doesn't know -

This is Q, and yet, he...

Even with Vesper, he never considered. They didn't ever mention marriage.

James hasn't so much as contemplated the prospect of binding himself to another since childhood, and even then, it was an abstract certainty that gradually faded into numb resignation rather than a concrete future. He isn't sure -

Well. He just isn't sure.

It's the finality of it, he decides. That's what's setting his instincts off. For the majority of his life, to stop running is to die, and he adores Q with everything that he is, but he doesn't think he can -

The ongoing silence finally registers. "Q," James prods cautiously when Q continues to do nothing but blink slowly at him in a befuddled fashion, "are we here because you want to participate in a binding ceremony?"

Q shakes his head lethargically. "Noooo…I didn't...that wasn't. I would have. I would have asked you first."

Oh.

James is genuinely taken aback to feel the dizzying sensation of his heart falling. After a moment's pause, he can only conclude that maybe, just maybe, he isn't as opposed to the idea as he believed. There are bets in MI6 and living in the same flat, and then there are binding ceremonies, and the difference in devotion, in intent, is staggering.

Intermingled with the regret and disappointment, however, is crystal relief, and James finds himself recognizing that Q isn't the only one who needs time.

James knows that Q will never be a limitation, will always be his wings even when Q himself is afraid of the air, especially when Q himself is afraid of the air because Q won't ever allow himself to hold them down - the dazzling skyline behind them is a silent but undeniable testament to that, as are the pretty green dilated pupils peering trustingly at him - but he doesn't know, and after all these years, the slightest chink of chains still raises his hackles.

"James?"

Q's tentative, drowsy voice draws him back out of his thoughts, and James shakes his head, dismissing his thoughts for later contemplation. Q's frowning at him, aware enough even through his somnolence to catch on to the turn in James' mood.

James smiles, all soothing charm. "Won't you tell me what we're here for before my guesses are forced to become even wilder?" he teases lightly. "I'll start thinking that we've come to dig out the last remnants of Spectre next."

The worried look on Q's face fades so he can frown deeper. "No," he orders. Sleepy as he is, though, the stern tone of voice he was obviously going for is more petulant and plaintive, and James has to bite back a smirk. "Absolutely not. No going after...terrorist groups."

He stops for a second before adding again, "No" with the fullest conviction that if he says it often enough, James will listen.

James chuckles and starts ushering Q towards the very plush-looking bed, eager to avoid his own alarming thoughts and knowing that he should let Q sleep off the side effects of his meds as soon as possible. "Well then, maybe if I know our main objective, I won't deviate from it," he says reasonably.

Q narrows his eyes, which would have been much more effective if he didn't yawn a heartbeat later. "Sleep," he says, slurring his words a bit. He tugs at James' sleeves. "With me. That's your...main objective."

Preoccupied with getting Q out of his clothes so he can sleep more comfortably - and perhaps so they can have some fun later, when Q is in his right mind again - James makes an amused sound. "Is that so, my Quartermaster?"

"Yes." Q nods, which makes locks of his unruly hair flop around limply on his forehead. It shouldn't be nearly as endearing as it is. "I say so. So it must be true."

James laughs and presses a kiss to Q's forehead. "As always," he says, joking but also entirely serious, "I'm at your command."

"Q."

Silence.

"Q, wake up."

A meagre whine, muffled in an expensive and exceedingly soft pillow.

"Q. It's time to get up."

"Go away," is the barely-coherent response that James manages to make out only because he has abundant practice in deciphering sleepy-Q-speech.

"I can't," James says in a rare moment of rational sensibility. It's somewhat ruined by the wicked smirk stretched across his face. "You told me to wake you up at seven on the dot for your super secret plan."

A charming mix of a mewl and a snarl comes out of Q's mouth. "Well, I lied."

"No, you didn't," James refutes with a cheeriness that he knows to be obnoxious. "Come on, up you get."

"Go to hell, you outdated Microsoft program," Q declares flatly.

Having heard far more intimidating and sincere threats in his lifetime, James is fantastically unfazed by this. "Been there, done that," he says, more amused than ever. And then, because Q is terribly predictable when it comes to his morning routines, "I have tea."

Q grumbles but stirs slightly behind the plush duvet. If he were a cat, his ears would be perking up.

Grinning, James adds, "Room service is going to be here soon."

Q twitches and deigns to turn his head to the side to peak at James. All but buried under the duvet as he is, he looks like a dark-haired groundhog poking his head out of his den to take in the world after a long and brutal winter. James has to stifle a laugh. "What did you order?"

"Cornettos - that would be croissants - with biscotti and brioche."

Q hums but doesn't get up.

Eyes narrowing, James deals what he knows to be the finishing blow without mercy, "I also asked for ciabatta and cheese."

Q's groan is deep and heartfelt, and he glares at James balefully. They both know that Q has the softest of soft spots for cheese. Finally, with clear reluctance, Q asks in a sleep-roughened voice that never fails to send a spark down James' spine, "What sort of cheese?"

"Since you took the liberty of bringing us to such a nice hotel, they said they would send up ricotta for spreading and parmigiano-reggiano to put on top," James says, sitting down on the edge of the bed.

"...I hate you," Q mutters with a pout and closes his eyes, mulishly determined to get his last few seconds of rest.

"Your tea is going to get cold," James says without missing a beat. "Come on, up you get, darling."

Q whines and shoves his face into the duvet. "This is all your fault."

"How is this my fault?"

"You wore me out last night," Q accuses sullenly.

The memory of it makes James smirk, rather pleased with himself. Q woke up after a five hour nap, remembering exactly none of what happened between taking his meds and waking up in bed with James. They had a lovely time christening the bed and testing out the thickness of the walls in-between some delicious pizza and trying out the various channels on the telly.

"I didn't hear you complaining," James retorts, smug.

Granted, Q could point out that James muffled his broken cries in the crook of his neck, but instead, he hisses, having clearly spent too much time around his cats - who are being watched over by Q's various systems and Moneypenny when she has time to swing around - and throws a pillow at James' head.

Never one to refuse a challenge, James bravely takes up the gauntlet and spends the next ten minutes rolling around in bed with Q and succeeding in forcing him to get up at last, mostly by chasing him around the room with a pillow.

For some reason, James doesn't think his parkour skills and intense training were meant to be used in such a fashion. He's only more self-satisfied by this.

Room service is greeted by a James who has on black cotton trousers and nothing else, breathing a tad heavier than normal. It's to the man's credit that he barely blinks and merely rolls in the cart with a nod of his head and polite greetings. Q, who's in the bathroom, is safely out of sight during the entire duration of the employee's visit.

When Q comes out, dressed and yawning and smelling delectably of his aftershave, James is sipping at his cup of hot coffee with a newspaper in his hands. In the midst of brushing up on his Italian, he suddenly notices the date and freezes, a puzzle piece belatedly snapping into place.

It's the 10th of November.

He inadvertently overlooked the day on their ticket, on the plane, during the hotel check-in yesterday, the nine slipping right past him without registering, but the double digits trip an association he's somehow forgotten up until now, and oh, he's floored.

He's known that his birthday is coming up, of course, but the exact when of it has, up until now, escaped him, and James wasn't expecting this, but looking back, he should have.

When James looks up, Q is smiling fondly, leaning against the wall of the short hallway between the main suite and the bathroom with his arms crossed. "Finally figured it out then?"

James manages to make his tongue work, only to find himself saying, "This is an awful thing to spring on me, Q."

Q laughs, so gorgeous that it makes James' heart hurt, and unfolds his arms to saunter forward. "How was I to know that you'd forget your own birthday?" he asks merrily. "I thought you were joking when you first said you didn't know why we're taking a vacation."

"Forty-six is hardly a milestone," James says although it is, although that's why he retired. That and Q. Always Q. And then, because Q has walked into his arms and he still can't believe how lucky he is, he buries his head in Q's soft stomach and confesses quietly, "I never really kept track of my birthdays. I always counted on other people to remind me."

Q strokes James' hair with one hand and rests the other hand on his nape. The lack of pressure prevents any prickling of his survival instincts, and James relaxes into the petting with a soft sound of pleasure. "I was the opposite," he replies. "I kept track obsessively. It was the one time I could almost directly communicate with you without feeling like I was betraying you. My guilty pleasure, per se."

The corners of James' lips are tugged into a smile. "You spoiled me. 'Don't really go for explosive pens anymore' my arse."

Q snorts. "Really? You choose to mention the exploding pen over the Aston Martin?"

"That was wonderful, too," James concedes smoothly and listens to Q laugh, airy and cheerful.

It turns out that Q's big plan is to play tourists for a day. Well, Q plays tourist, and James plays tour guide. He explains it as, "It's not your birthday yet, and I've always wanted to go to Rome. And according to your file, you've already been here at least three times so you must know where the best places are."

"Four times actually," James corrects, nonchalantly ambling alongside his soulmate in a nicely tailored black jacket and old jeans. The sunglasses over his eyes lends Q's horrendous striped sweater a darker tint. He really wants to burn that crime against sense and vision. "Took a relaxing vacation here two years ago."

"You mean when you blew up two buildings, set a massive fire, and left while on the run from authorities?" Q asks, dry as good firewood. "That time?"

James smirks, hands in his pockets. "I rather enjoyed it."

"I'm sure everyone else wouldn't say the same." A corner of Q's mouth ticks up, though, so James knows that he's more amused than angry.

Still, he suspects it'd be in his better interest to not continue this line of conversation, so he changes the topic easily, "Alright then. Where do you want to go, Q?"

Q smiles. The radiant glow of this magnificent city wipes the stress of his job from his face, from the set of his shoulders, and he looks remarkably carefree, more resplendent than all of Rome put together. "Everywhere," he replies. "But we're leaving the Pantheon until the end."

James thinks of his thirty-fourth birthday and conversations over comms. He breathes in the cool answer - winter is coming, winter is already here in all but name - and relishes in the familiar rhythm of these streets, the dialects falling on his ears like glossy chocolate, and the lack of obligation.

He is here for himself. He is here for Q.

He is not here for MI6. He is not 007.

"Come along then," James says with a smile whispering temptation like the Devil himself. "We have a lot of ground to cover."

James takes Q to all the classic tourist attractions. An engineer at heart, Q greedily observes the graceful architecture Rome has to offer: the Colosseum, the Trevi Foundation, and the Roman Forum. There's awe in the brush of his fingertips, joy in his animated motions.

They spare no expense, and they take their time, and it's spectacular all around.

James has already seen everything already, seen everything dozens of times over, but the wonder and fascination that light up Q's countenance never loses their appeal, and he happily spends the time murmuring to Q the small bits of history he's picked up through his years operating out of Rome.

For lunch, they eat at a small but fantastic restaurant James discovered years back. He's delighted to find that their food is as delicious as it always was, their service just as courteous. Q spends the time alternating between exclaiming over the architecture and complaining about the cold, although James barely feels it.

"It's twelve degrees," James reminds him, leaning back in his chair. He's pretty much done with his plate; Q's barely eaten three bites. He pointedly stares at Q's mostly-full plate until Q takes another bite, looking sheepish.

"That's cold," Q insists with a little sniff. "Not everyone can be living furnaces like you, James."

James pretends to consider this. "Maybe you're just a reptile in disguise," he poses in faux thoughtfulness.

Instead of being insulted, Q stares out the window for a moment, lips pursed. "I think I would make a great turtle," he says. "I'd prefer it, in fact."

"And why is that?"

"Turtles don't have to deal with rude living furnaces who selfishly hoard all of their warmth to themselves." Q frowns, just as pointedly, at James, who huffs out a laugh of acknowledgement. He is sitting on the other side of the table.

"I thought turtles get by just fine with the sun," he teases.

Q raises his eyebrows at James in telling silence. It takes him a second to get it, but then James' smile softens, and he consents to walk around the table to press close to Q, who indeed has very cold fingers.

James has never been told he's someone else's sun.

Q also insists on leaving the Sistine Chapel and the Piazza di Spagna for later, which James takes to mean tomorrow. They wander down the Via del Corso and the Piazza Navona instead, buying any food that catches Q's eye from the street vendors and talking about anything that crosses their mind.

In the late afternoon, they go for a stroll around the Villa Borghese gardens. Early winter's beauty is stark and unadorned but dazzling nonetheless, and it pleases James to kiss Q silly by the lake so that's what he does.

And at last, just as the sun sets, they visit the Pantheon. Q takes in the towering columns and majestic dome with an impassive face. James stands a metre behind him and waits patiently while Q looks his fill, deja vu a cosy blanket that protects him from the wind chill.

Right before the light leaves the sky dark and black, Q takes a single photo with great deliberation before turning and going back to James.

"Satisfied?" James asks.

"Yes," Q says simply. "Let's go back."

They eat dinner on their balcony, the room service more than sufficient. In the faint glow of the streetlights and the warm wash of light from their room, Q is the most gorgeous creature James has ever seen, all his sharp edges tucked away for a softness that James wants to wrap himself around and protect.

James has to remind himself multiple times that he's allowed to stare. Q stares right back, after all, completely unabashed, and James fancies that Q looks at no one else like he looks at James. There's solemnity in Q's demeanour now, a quiet intensity that demands James' in return, and they talk in low tones about nothing at all, keeping their legs tangled together under the table.

Q takes a shower first. James would follow him in, but the slant to Q's mouth tells him that now isn't the time and the weight to Q's movements tell him that Q isn't done with whatever plan he's crafted. So James has two glasses of wine on the balcony and takes a shower himself when Q is done.

When he comes back out, James finds Q lying on their bed, wearing his pants and nothing else. He's face-down and resting on his folded arms, eyes closed.

James thinks he's asleep for a heartbeat and then sees: on the bedside table is his laptop, which has a blown-up picture of the Pantheon, the one Q took today, and a single black pen, all-too-familiar even from far away.

James freezes. Q refuses to stir from his position, and eventually, James finds his voice to say, "Q - "

"This showed up on my chest once," Q says without opening his eyes, voice languid and calm. "After I got the Colosseum on my right shoulder. I've always regretted that you don't know how much I loved it."

James doesn't know what to say to this. He leans against the wall and crosses his arms, naked as the day he was born, and casts about for something appropriate. "It was just for a lark. And it wasn't very good," he says, striving for nonchalance. "You don't have to - "

"Sherlock was getting worse," Q continues as if James didn't say anything. James falls silent immediately; Q so rarely talks about his brothers, about himself. "Mycroft was busy, and I was at Uni, so I was the one who got to look over Sherlock when he was lost in his head."

He pauses before continuing hesitantly, "Sherlock...was never himself when he was high. But he was still my brother, and I couldn't leave him alone. It wasn't...a good time for me, and the riddles and drawings took my mind off of everything, even if it was only temporary." Q opens his eyes to lock eyes with James, unflinching and bewitching in his stark vulnerability. "So. Thank you."

And what can James say to that sincerity, to the piece of Q that he's just been handed? Nothing seems adequate, so he pads forward on silent feet and presses a close-mouthed kiss to Q's bare shoulder. To tell him that he knows how difficult it was for Q to say those words out loud, to admit any kind of weakness because they're both much too proud. To tell him that he treasures every last puzzle piece that Q hands him, treasures the fact that he doesn't have to quest for them himself, not anymore.

Beneath him, Q sighs and relaxes, eyes closing once more, and James knows that Q heard.

"I wanted to give you the world," James breathes against Q's skin, moving to straddle his hips in one smooth move. He's careful with the distribution of his weight, not wanting to crush his smaller partner. "I still do."

Q smiles, lazy. "Start with Rome. And then we'll see."

James draws the Pantheon on Q's back in long, black strokes with only the glow of the streetlamps and Q's laptop to see by. He talks as he draws, talks about his early days in the navy and the quiet wanderlust of his twenties, the allure of a rush that could drive away ghosts.

"You were my only anchor sometimes," he breathes into the accepting air between them like a secret. "My only constant when everything else changed with the pull of a trigger."

In return, Q tells him of social events that never ended and people who stared at him without realising he was a person. Of an intelligence that kept him sprinting towards an unseen end goal, of afternoons spent frustrated and thirsty for knowledge that could fill the emptiness in his head.

"You kept me stable," he whispers into the muffling cotton as if he doesn't want James to hear him, though he must. "You gave me normalcy, something to hold on to."

When he's finished, James shifts back. It's better than what he did nearly two decades ago, he thinks, not least because he has a better angle this time.

Q's pale in the moonlight. His dark hair and the drawing sprawled on his back like a massive tattoo contrasts strikingly, and for a while, James lays on his side next to Q, watching the ink dry and pressing kisses to the slope of his elegant neck.

"Turn around," Q finally says, opening his eyes partially. James was nearly certain that he was asleep, so relaxed and at peace had he looked. "I want to see."

James obediently turns so his back is facing Q and shivers when Q traces the outer edge of the Pantheon with a single fingertip. When he glances over his shoulder, Q is smiling. "And you say you're not a good artist," he rebukes, pressing his hand flat against the small of James' back.

"I'm not," James denies automatically. He's a liar and a killer, a spy and an assassin. He's strangled life out of eyes with these scarred, broken hands; how can he claim to be able to create anything new and pleasing with such instruments?

Q hums. It doesn't sound like agreement to James, but Q doesn't chase the topic. He drapes himself over James' back instead and says, "Go to sleep. We have all of tomorrow."

Q, miracle of all miracles, is the one who drags James from bed the morning of his birthday. "Happy birthday," he says, pressing a kiss to his forehead. "Now get up, you lazy arse; we've things to do."

James chuckles and props himself up against the headboard, tucking his hand behind his head. "It's my birthday," he protests weakly. "Shouldn't that mean I decide what we do today? What if I just want to stay in bed with you all day long?"

"Absolutely not," Q says primly, though his lips twitch as he goes hunting for trousers. "We do that every Sunday at home. We don't need to do that on your birthday here in Rome."

They eat breakfast in a small cafe that was James' favourite back when he was stationed here. Giggling over croissants and coffee like schoolgirls, James lures Q into a laughing kiss and tastes tea on his tongue. After breakfast, Q produces tickets with a secretive smirk and waves aside James' questions of how he got them. They tour Rome's many museums and art galleries, admiring ancient mosaics and sculptures of gods long gone.

"It really reminds me of you," James tells Q in all seriousness as they stand in front of a painting of an old man asleep at his desk, scrolls and quills splayed about him and a single candle lighting up the small and cluttered room.

Q jabs his elbow into James' side without missing a beat, without letting go of his hand. "Oh, shut up."

They eat lunch at one of the museums, disregarding how ridiculously overpriced everything is, and debate, half-seriously, the history of the Mafia over stealing bites of each other's too-greasy food. Afterwards, Q drags them to the shopping district of Rome, where they wander in and out of high-end stores.

"Do you think Moneypenny would like this?" James asks, fingering a neon-pink romper. He likes the texture.

"I think she would kill you and not even make it look like an accident," Q answers, examining a deerstalker with a scheming look on his face.

James wisely keeps out of his way and buys the romper. He'll give it to her at her next birthday party, he decides, when everyone's too smashed to work up the coordination to try to attempt an assassination.

Q buys an elaborately decorated cane, several magnets, and a 10 metre-long tapestry.

"We don't exactly have space for that," James says.

"It's not for us," Q replies, and James suspects that, for once, he doesn't want to know. The devilish smirk on Q's lips looks rather delicious, though, so he kisses it off and ignores Q's amused glance.

James has no particular item he wants to buy. He's been here enough that common tourism has lost its shine, but they do pass one establishment that he finds himself lingering in. It's a small but charming crafts store with paints and brushes and pencils in a dizzying array of colours and sizes.

Q leaves him to it, straying off on his own for a good twenty minutes. They leave after spending half an hour in the store, having bought nothing. James ambled down every aisle, however, marvelling and transfixed.

At six in the evening, Q tells James that they're going back to their hotel.

James eyes the determined set to Q's mouth and restrains himself with some difficulty from asking more questions. He's been enjoying himself so far - very much - and watching Q be competent and commanding has ever been fascinating and attractive in equal measures.

Following Q's lead is hardly anything new.

"Put this on," Q orders when they get back, sweeping into the room with an edge of nervous anticipation that only arouses James' curiosity further. He shoves a garment bag at James, grabs a garment bag of his own, and promptly locks himself in the bathroom with only an "I'll be out in a moment," for an explanation.

Whatever James was expecting, he wasn't expecting a beautifully tailored dark grey suit.

Q stares in the mirror and frowns. He adjusts his maroon tie for the sixth time. It's tilted a bit right.

He runs his hands through his hair again and sighs when an unruly lock flops over his forehead. Mummy always did hate how his hair never behaves without copious amounts of product. Sherlock wasn't ever a problem, because he likes gel. An atrocious amount of it.

Q doesn't. It makes his hair feel stiff and brittle. Plus, it makes his scalp itch. How Mummy would tut when she found his hair a mess during yet another party, her own curls perfectly glossy and tamed. Mycroft's lucky; his hair is straight and thin, like their father's.

Looking at his navy suit jacket and waistcoat, Q thinks that at last, those monotone hours are coming in handy. Stepping back into tailored trousers and polished shoes feels like the ill-fit of childhood. He adjusts his tie again.

Q's been hiding in the bathroom for more than ten minutes, and although he can't hear so much as a rustle of clothing from outside the locked door, Q senses James' curiosity and anticipation like an itch under his skin.

He really is insatiable when it comes to secrets and surprises, and this is both.

Q squares his shoulders. That's enough, he tells his reflection, annoyed at his own insecurity. He hasn't been stuck in such a loop of self-doubt since primary. It's just a fancy outfit, just a fancy dinner, nothing he hasn't done before, except.

Except it's a fancy suit for James, a fancy dinner with James because it's James' birthday.

What did he say before, the first time they properly met, skittish and frightened and angry and brimming over with guilt and joy intertwined?

The inevitability of time.

Intellectually, Q knows James would have hit retirement age eventually. For years, he wished for it, prayed to a God he didn't believe in for the dream of never again having to attend James' funeral, stayed up all night and performed acts of dubious morality and legality. All so James would live to see retirement.

And yet. He's spent so long linking James Bond with soldier-sailor-sightseer-spy that sometimes, Q still can't wrap his mind around it. The infamous 007 retiring? 007 leaving MI6 after sixteen damn years of service? 007 becoming James, just James, an incurable romantic and a secret cat-lover and a man with the gentlest hands?

For Q?

He doesn't want James to change his mind one day, doesn't want bitterness choking their newly-green relationship like a toxin. He wants to make it up to James; he wants to somehow maintain the illusion that Q is worth a lifetime of duty and the rest of the luminous world.

And James spoils him so with the indulgent kisses, the delicious meals every day, the tea at his desk when he's been working for seven hours straight and the homemade snacks when he's hungry at 2300, the small gifts and quiet consideration when Q least expects it. Q is so very desperately lucky, and he wants fiercely to spoil James back.

A knock on the door. "Q? Are you okay?"

Q takes a deep breath and grasps his courage in a bloodless grip. Forcibly turning away from the mirror, he wrenches open the door and strides out and -

stops.

No matter how many times Q has seen him in formal wear, James is breathtaking. His eyes are so terribly blue, and his suit fits flawlessly, as Q knew it would, highlighting those broad shoulders, that muscled chest, the coiled strength masquerading so skillfully as confident seduction.

And the way he's looking at Q…

Q relaxes, the weight of a thousand anxieties lifted off of his shoulders. How foolish of him. How silly. How could he have forgotten? What was he so scared of? It's James. He smiles slyly past the dryness in his mouth and says, "Like what you see?"

Because how could anyone ever doubt that they're the most beautiful, most desired person in the world when James looks at them like that?

"Yes," James replies, blunt and completely sincere, and Q loses his breath, heart racing in his chest. James takes a step forward, closes the distance between them, and brushes his knuckles over Q's cheek, touch reverent.

Q sighs into the familiar starburst of bliss and leans into the contact, eyes fluttering shut momentarily. "Flatterer," he accuses half-heartedly.

James chuckles. "No," he murmurs. "All truth this time, I promise."

Dinner is delightful. Magical. Candlelight and the city at night turn Q into pleasant shadows and blurred beauty, an artist's muse. They drink wine that goes down like molten lust, eat food that delights, and exchange kisses that taste of expensive chocolate. Playful banter flows easily between them and their waiter finds them giggling over sex jokes during the third course.

To the man's credit, he says nothing and doesn't even give them a judgmental eyebrow. For that, James tips him an extra fifty euros, feeling giddy and twenty years younger, riding the flush of intoxication although he's barely had three glasses.

They snog like teenagers in the back of the cab they call and stumble back to their room, clutching at each other for balance and sneaking kisses in-between steps.

Q tastes like the chocolate frosted cake they had for dessert, rich and sumptuous and with a hint of vanilla ice cream, and James presses him against the back of the door for more slow, shivery kisses. "You taste good," he murmurs in Q's ear between kisses.

"I thought I was the one with the sweet tooth," Q gasps out, eyes crinkled at the corners with merriment. "You only taste like wine. We need to switch."

"You're ridiculous," James says, not even trying to stop himself from grinning stupidly.

"You're ridiculous," Q retorts childishly. As if in retaliation, he presses his palms flat against James' chest and starts to push with a careful application of pressure.

James lets him lead them to their massive bed, doing his best to distract Q with his tongue all the while. Smugly, he notes that Q pauses once and stumbles twice before the back of his knees hit the bed, and he falls flat on his back, bouncing slightly.

Q climbs on top of him, smirking. "You're all mine," he proclaims gleefully.

James chuckles. "It's my birthday," he points out again. "Shouldn't it be the opposite way around?"

"Nope," Q says, popping the 'p', and braces his hands on either side of James. "I take care of you tonight. So lie back and think of England."

"But I would rather think of you," James says even as he dutifully relaxes back into the cool, silken sheets.

"You can do that," Q allows with a king's graciousness and promptly makes sure James can think of nothing at all.

"I presume the honeymoon stage is over." - M

"Mycroft, don't you dare." - Q

"He has to meet the family sometime." - M

"It's about time. We should give him a warm welcome." - S

"Oh, fuck off, Sherlock." - Q

"Let's make an appointment next week, shall we?" - M

A day after they get back, James finds out that Q has one more present for him.

He's losing a staring rematch with Morgana badly when there's a knock on the door. After obsessively cleaning the flat for the nth time, James has been bored out of his mind and contemplating breaking into Moneypenny's flat simply for something to do.

Now, the unexpected visitor seems like a heavenly intervention, God himself begging James to cease and desist at once.

Curious, James glances over at the door. The undisputed winner, Morgana meows haughtily and wanders off in the direction of Q's bedroom, tail held high. Ignoring Her Highness, Bond walks past the sofa and stashes the Beretta 9mm he hid under it in his jacket before heading to the door.

Q took the liberty of explaining his security system to James a day after he unofficially moved in. Certain individuals - Q and James - can gain access through facial recognition if they're alone or together. Otherwise, it's fairly easy to get into the flat when Q isn't present.

It's getting out that's the problem. Q likes his neighbours and managed to stutter out "don't want to shock them too badly" before bursting into a fit of giggles. Aware of the electrified everything in the flat, James rolled his eyes and let him work himself out of his laughing fit.

It's twelve after noon. What purpose does anyone have here now?

Bond pulls up the app that Q downloaded in his phone with easy grace. It's linked to the security cameras outside, and the screen shows…

A delivery man with three large boxes, fidgeting in place and looking at his watch. He knocks on the door again.

If it's a disguise, Bond thinks, it's a good one. If it was a bad disguise, Q's facial recognition program would have caught it two minutes ago and sent him a notice, because this man isn't even attempting to keep his face hidden from view.

He opens the door.

"Good morning! I have a delivery for a...Richard Sterling?" The man smiles politely at him. It's vaguely amusing to see how fast his face transitions from irritated-and-bored to customer-service.

Bond pretends this isn't a surprise. He's very good at it. "Of course. Ta." He takes the boxes, which are surprisingly heavy, and place them inside, taking care to never take his eyes off of the delivery man or show his back.

"If you would just sign here…"

Bond sends him on his way with the chicken scribble that Richard Sterling uses and closes the door, listening to the locks re-engage with pleasure. Then, he turns to scrutinize the boxes. He wonders if he should send it through MI6 Security. He normally wouldn't, but there are the cats to consider...

His phone vibrates.

"They're perfectly safe." - Q

James arches an eyebrow at the message. Q must be bored during his lunch break to be keeping such a close eye on the security cameras. "What have you done now, Q?" he asks Rayleigh, who has come to see what all this fuss is about.

Rayleigh meows and headbutts the largest box. He pads around it, eyes wide and suspicious, probably scrutinizing its worth as a cat-box.

"I wasn't expecting a useful answer either," James tells him and puts away his Beretta. He grabs a pair of scissors from the kitchen and cuts open the smallest box, which is still relatively large. Peeling back the flaps, he looks in and freezes.

It's...art supplies.

An entire box of art supplies. Five sketchbooks, each different in some way that the cover loudly advertises. Sets of unsharpened charcoal, graphite, and coloured pencils. Charming pastels and fine pens with differently coloured inks, narrow and wide markers.

An enchanting array of those special soulmate pens in lavishly vivid colours.

James is held motionless in place for another breathless moment before turning and tackling the other two boxes.

The second holds tubes of oil and acrylic paint, spanning the rainbow and with unique colours, like 'metallic silver' and 'shining turquoise'. Batches of paint brushes and knives, equally as impressive. Two packs of watercolours, varnishes, and gesso.

The third, the largest, contains a broken down easel, handsomely untouched canvases of differing sizes, palettes, and organizing containers. Everything is obviously of high quality, crafted with stunning elegance but with a simplicity that gently suggests new beginnings.

James sits back on his hunches, devastated. His eyes burn, so he closes them. He doesn't. He doesn't know what to say.

He's never been loved like this.

This isn't fair, he thinks, smiling softly, helplessly. Q isn't fair. How is James meant to repay him when he keeps doing things like this?

Then again, spending the rest of his life trying to repay Q sounds perfectly wonderful. James would be content doing just that.

He would be happy. He is happy.

Q has said nothing more, and so James picks up his phone once more. He brushes his thumb over the text message. Technology is how Q operates, how he communicates. But that's not James. That's not them.

James puts the phone down and cuts open a package. He selects a gift the dark green of Q's eyes before flinging off his sweater and unbuttoning the first three buttons of his shirt.

Over the years, he's gotten used to writing the wrong way and at an awkward angle. Doing both isn't difficult.

He hesitates.

Thank you.

A minute later, gentle warmth spreads through his chest. Right underneath, in solid black, in that graceful, sprawling handwriting he's seen so often throughout the years:

"It is never too late to be what you might have been." - George Eliot

James smiles and brushes his fingers over the words. "Pretentious sod," he whispers.

OpalescentGold: I owe the world to my two betas, Linorien and PigFarts23!

The last chapter will be the epilogue and also consist of very, very little plot beyond fluff and relationship building, because I'm extremely fond of both. Again, if those aren't your thing, Lovers to Soulmates can be considered the unofficial ending of this fic.

I'm still thinking about that DVD Commentary, particularly since Q is speaking to me. But hmmm, tell me what you guys think.